Our Time Together Rewritten
by Beware of the Nargles
Summary: After their dramatic escape from Malfoy Manor, Dean Thomas and Luna Lovegood are left to their own devices at Shell Cottage, as the Trio continue to bring down Voldemort. In Luna's point of view. A second, edited version, and a lot better, I hope.
1. Chapter 1: Escape

**A/N: This is an updated and edited version of a story I wrote, from 2007/8, I believe, and after a long hiatus from the world of Harry Potter fanfiction, I decided this was the time to improve the mess of fanfics I left behind on my profile. One of the stories I had the strongest urge to write in the first place was this one, at Shell Cottage in DH, what could have happened... but didn't. We don't know much about what happened while Harry, Ron and Hermione were busy. It's just a bit of fun. This is all from Luna's point of view, always let me know if she's totally out of character or whatnot. **

**I hope you enjoy it. Read and review!**

_Disclaimer: I am not J K Rowling (obviously!) and therefore I (obviously!) do not own Harry Potter. Some phrases/conversations may be taken from the Deathly Hallows, if you happen to think some lines sound suspiciously familiar..._

The sudden, unearthly whirling vacuum of the Apparation disorients me – my eyes, fully adjusted to the dank cellar I've inhabited since the beginning of the Christmas holidays, can't handle the brightness of the natural light, so I force my eyes safely shut until my feet are planted on firm ground, my head has stopped spinning and I have slackened my grip on the house elf, our saviour.

It's more than I could have hoped for – by this time, I had not expected, even in my most idealistic dreams, to be faced again with those blinding rays of a blazing planet, so strong, burning down on all this life, on me.

"Thank you, Dobby," I whisper. The words spring to my lips in relief - before my mind is properly functioning (if it ever does) again, before I've even set my eyes on our destination, the gratitude bursts out of me.

I finally open my misty blue eyes, drinking in the warmth and light … and I refuse to ever blink again for fear of being transported back, in that moment of blindness, to the hungry darkness of that prison.

Dobby's Disapparated already – to rescue the others, I expect.

The fresh, open air feels like heaven to my lungs, and I suck in as much as I possibly can in each breath. I had been quite oblivious to the tall person next to me until he muttered something about "Shell Cottage?" sounding utterly bewildered.

I catch his eye, wearing an expression that doesn't help him feel any less lost, then I look beyond Dean Thomas to two people rushing out to assist Mr. Olllivander, who had already begun staggering towards the cliff top cottage.

"Bill and Fleur," I breathe, the hurried plan we heard only moments earlier in the Malfoys' cellar returning to mind. Despite my not having directly spoken to either of the couple, I recognise them immediately from their summer wedding at the Burrow, a time that, in the present climate, seems like an alternate universe. (Until the security of the wizarding world, the ministry, and everything else came crashing down that evening.)

Dean nods at the names, though neither of us know Ronald's oldest brother or the beautiful Beauxbatons Triwizard champion well enough to even consider making for 'Shell Cottage on the outskirts of Tinworth', as we vaguely know, as a refuge from all those Death Eaters, Snatchers, and the rest of those bad, bad people terrorizing the world…Daddy once suspected You-Know-Who even had the vicious Scheming Snickerjacks at his command, and that would explain a lot, I think.

Bill and Fleur Weasley escort Mr. Ollivander inside and return to Dean and I at almost the same moment we hear that satisfying _crack!_ announcing the arrival of Dobby, with Harry, Ron and Hermione in tow.

But as a desperate Ron and a dazed Fleur hurriedly accompany Hermione, hardly able to stand from the curses and torture she's endured, all of those crimson scars and echoes of the screams she produced would not prepare any of us for what succeeds that sight – Harry, bent over and horror etched on his face as he looks into the unseeing tennis ball eyes of the tiny house elf. Dobby, the friendliest elf in the kitchens, the free being who would have always chosen to sacrifice his life for his hero, Harry Potter, and when he did, became as courageous, noble and appreciated as his idol.

I tear my eyes past the wound, and that silver knife that caused so much harm, and tears creep down my cheeks as I think, of anyone, Dobby did not deserve to die after having saved us all.

Everyone is silenced by the humble corpse and Harry Potter's visible grief for Dobby the house elf. He wants to dig the grave, he says. We need to leave him alone.

I let the tears fall as I follow Bill, Fleur and Dean to the house.

* * *

Here we are again, outside where Harry has dug the grave, the mound of red earth ready to refill it. I only glance briefly at Dobby's body, wearing a woolly hat, jacket and Ron's socks and shoes. I can't look much more; this day has already been imprinted in my mind. But I can't help it; the sadness wells up as thoughts of Dobby mingle with memories of my mother's death, eight years ago.

Everyone is quiet and motionless, but something isn't right yet.

"We should close his eyes," I say quietly, bending over and gently closing his eyes. "There. Now he could be sleeping."

As Harry lifts Dobby into the grave, I try to tell the house elf how grateful I am that he saved us all. Even in a time of destruction, he found the will to be kind and brave, to help us. I voice the simplest of these feelings, because he deserves a proper funeral. "Thank you so much, Dobby."

"Thanks," everyone mutters. I see Harry, fighting to stay calm and not let the grief take him over, acting unknowingly as a role model and leader.

After a while, the understated funeral dissolves and Bill and Fleur trudge back into the cottage, along with Ron and Hermione. I drift behind Dean Thomas's slightly stooped figure, exhaustion sweeping over me until I force it away, unsure of what is going to happen to all of us next.


	2. Chapter 2: Catching up

**A/N: Updates should be quicker from now on, because although I'll be busy with school, I've already written some later parts - that's the trouble with my imagination, it never thinks of anything in the practical order. But please review if you read, I don't like to sound whiny but hey, I probably am...though if you can spare a minute of your time to drop a line, I'll promise to work on my whininess...(if that's a word) :)**

**Chapter 2**

Harry wants to speak to Mr Ollivander and what's his name? Gripey?…no…Grouchy?…Grinchy? I can't for the life of me remember his name, but I definitely mean the goblin, who is in one of the rooms upstairs.

Ron and Hermione are with him. It must be important, for them to rush up as if they have a deadline, even after months and months of 'questing' with probably no breaks, I think. I wonder what they need with Mr Ollivander, but then I remember he's been locked up at a Death Eater's house for ever so long. Obviously they want to talk to him for the same reasons Lord Voldemort wanted the wandmaker. I can't fathom what that could be.

I suddenly look up, the uncomfortable sensation of being watched drifting over me like a shadow. I feel my spine tingle right up to my neck and shiver dramatically, a jerky motion that makes me realise out of the corner of my eye, that the eyes on me were Dean's. That makes sense - he's the only other person in the room at the moment.

We're in the sitting room of Shell Cottage, the soft colours of the furniture and the flowing natural light through the windows opening up the room and creating an exaggerated airy feel – until I glance at the walls and they press in on me, pointing out the room's restrictions. It's funny, because these ideas balance out and I come to the happy conclusion that the room can be described as airily cosy.

One glance at Dean's expression tells me he's wondering all the same things I am, but I turn my gaze to the rather more relaxing blazing driftwood fire in the grate. The flames rage in funny colours, and rather than fire, I think of the ocean. Tumbling blue-green waves, sea foam sparks spraying around the sandy embers. The fire's a miniature world of its own. I imagine standing before flames taller than Ravenclaw Tower, surrounding me, tainting my view of the sunset sky when I look straight up with the orange crown of the flame tips.

"What's Hogwarts been like?"

I glance at Dean, my moonlike eyes widening at the sudden question.

How to respond? Dean Thomas has not been present at school the whole year. He was brought to Malfoy Manor by the Snatchers, I figure that much. Which means he was on the run, for being a muggleborn? How much contact has he had with the wizarding world? What has he heard?

"We started up the D.A. again," I finally confess. "It was Ginny's idea, of course. It was the only way to stand up to the Carrows – the awful Death Eaters You-Know-Who put there. And Snape, it's not easy with an evil Headmaster. But the D.A., we managed to get away with a lot, just enough to prove we hadn't given up…we rebelled. I think it worried the Carrows; they couldn't break us. It's only because we have such a strong cause," I nod emphatically, and continue.

"The shadow of Harry, the leader, the face of the revolt, if you like, helped everyone… like we _were_ an army, with a mission, fighting for good. United we stand," I quote. "But then Neville and a few others risked too much, had to relocate to the Room of Requirement permanently. That worked well, Neville's bravery and drive encouraged us all. Ginny was quieter, but the most passionate. And I, I was so proud to be a part of it. And soon, surely, Harry will have the chance to get back and we'll overthrow the Death Eaters, easy." I take a deep breath and the lengthy speech hangs in the air, supported by the silence.

"After being taken off the train at Christmas, I ended up in the Malfoys' cellar."

I hope Daddy's okay. I want to stand up and race out of the cottage, to go and find him and see that he's perfectly fine and wondering about me like I am him, but reality crushes my hopes. I don't know what's happened to Daddy, I know he won't know where to find me, and it's completely crazy to imagine making it to my house, to Daddy, or back to Hogwarts, unscathed. And that there aren't traps at any of those places… I can't do it alone, at least not now.

I don't breathe a word of this, I don't let any anxiety or fear ebb out of me, not in front of Dean. That wouldn't be fair on him, to deal with me while having his own worries pressing in on him… and I admit, I don't want to be seen overcome, weeping, curled up in a ball like a small, sick child, calling for her parents, her father, her dead mother. Dead. Daddy can't be dead, he wouldn't have left me. But still, here I am, alone.

I lift my head and instead say. "I hope everyone had a good Christmas at Hogwarts. And I hope the Nargles didn't bother them too much."

Dean looks so taken aback that I started speaking in such a light hearted tone. He almost breaks into a smile. But it's obvious from the expression on his face, the look in his eyes, that he pities me, sees only naiveté and cannot see through the façade of odd optimism. I sigh to myself.

After a minute, Dean registers the Nargle reference.

I tell him seriously, though the corners of my lips twitch up, "Everyone knows that Nargles congregate at Christmas. They're attracted to the mistletoe."

He just rolls his eyes.


	3. Chapter 3: Hopeful

A/N: I'd love a review! Hope you enjoy!

Chapter 3

No one's really in the mood for talking, so how we communicate enough to relocate to the quaint dining table is a wonder. Just an offer of a cup of tea gives us a hint, a purpose, something to do.

My fingers cradle the mug, savouring the heat it emits without actually drinking it. My gaze drifts to the window, looking out blankly as if seeing an alien world. Dean sits next to me, neither of us initiating a conversation, neither possessing a subject worthy of bringing up. I do want to speak to him, to say something comforting or encouraging, but all that springs to mind is tactless or unanswerable. So I give up – no! just take a break – from trying to ease the awkward silence, and my thoughts reluctantly return to the window. It seems like the only way to keep from the particularly depressing images being created in my head; setting my sights upon that pre-sculpted landscape of a cliff-top garden, backing onto the waves which fade into the sky, in the strangest colours of startling cobalt and subtle teal, misty pearl and hints of cream.

The scraping sound of a chair being pulled up captures my attention, a beautiful woman brushing her silvery blonde hair behind her shoulders in one fluid motion before taking the seat. My eyes find her face, immediately seeing it. Fleur is troubled. Clearly, much like everyone in these circumstances. As much as she is trying to hide it, the frown overwhelms her features.

"What eez 'Arry doing?" With her French accent unusually stressed, the words burst out, opening a door to a flood. "And 'is friends, Ronald and 'ermione, zey are 'urt, exhausted…What on ze earth could 'ave 'appened to zem? Where 'ave zey been?"

So much for avoiding reality. I sigh inwardly, but know I can't escape, the only way is to keep fighting, or solve the problems… But all our problems, they must be close to being solved. I'm hopeful, though. I can feel the hope fluttering, inexplicably, inside me.

Bill, his features also contorted with lines of preoccupation and thoughtfulness, places a hand gently on his wife's shoulder, standing behind her like a bodyguard, sworn to protect her always.

"Harry's on some sort of mission. No one in the order seems to know what he's up to, though you can't blame Remus and the others for trying. There seems to be no stopping him. He says he's acting on Dumbledore's orders. And Ron, well – we got nothing out of him the whole time he was here..." he says flatly.

"But will you ask 'im? Try, at least, to find out?" Fleur replies.

Bill nods. Silence envelops the room again.

Of course, even the Order's dying for scraps of information, anything about bringing down He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named… and they think Harry has planned or planning to achieve this. I'm not particularly informed on the Order, apart from what Ginny used to relay to the D.A., and my own common sense, certainly.

Contrary to what a lot of people think, I do have an astonishing amount of common sense.

Logic is a great friend, to any Ravenclaw especially, except to me, belief is just as important. Faith and hope are what keep me going, I couldn't be so accepting of life without those concepts. To think of the world as utterly scientific is sensible, but narrow-mindedness gets you nowhere…I'm perfectly happy to accept 'magic' as magical, rather than what they teach us – the science behind magic.

Once again, I surface from my thoughts to the awkwardness that dwells with quiet and stillness – when alone, silence is reasonable, but with other minds and different thoughts in the room, you're expected to share them, to keep a steady tchk-tchk-tchk of words chiselling into our privacy.

So, to surprise everyone, I say, "Don't worry. Well, by all means be cautious, but have some confidence too. Harry knows what he let himself in for, he'll see it through till the end and all he needs us to do is support the right side. Don't give up hope, don't despair, just a little patience and I know everything with right itself eventually."

The motivational speech is brimming with such sincerity from me that no one wants to convey a negative response. They can't laugh, can't be afraid or sceptical because what I'm saying is honestly, innocent truth.

I look at Dean first, meeting his eyes as he's listened to the exchange so quietly I don't know what he's thinking. If I thought I could hide true emotions well, I'm nothing next to Mr. Thomas… I can't tell if that's the beginnings of despondent cynicism in the quirk of his mouth or a realisation of hope. I'm crossing my fingers for the latter, otherwise I've made a complete fool of myself in that little pep talk.

Wanting to feel some comfort, I instinctively take Dean's hand, which is rested aimlessly on the table next to his empty cup.

"You trust Harry." I tell him. His gaze pierces through me and as he gives a straightforward, frank nod and a probably unintentional squeeze of my hand. "He's going to return to Hogwarts soon enough, and we'll all go back and overthrow Snape and the Carrows, Dumbledore's Army again. Okay?" An indistinct murmur catches in his throat, but Dean's vague smile speaks louder than words – or perhaps he's dazed by a Wrackspurt, who knows?

Suddenly, something comes to Dean's attention and he leaps up as if he's on fire; his face actually on fire with a blush. Before I can console him about how Wrackspurts getting in your head is a little disconcerting, but nothing to be ashamed of, he's left the room.


	4. Chapter 4: Darkness

**A/N: Finally, the next chapter! Let me know if you enjoy. **

**Chapter 4**

Here I am, at Shell Cottage, lying in bed. It's been an age since I have lain so comfortably and I won't forget it. It's a wonder I didn't drift off immediately – usually sleeping is no trouble at all.

It's a tiny room, the smallest of the small bedrooms, but still Bill and Fleur have squashed up twin beds against the walls – I can imagine the whole Weasley family piling in to visit their oldest son or brother, the whole household coming alive with hustle and bustle and ginger hair… in another time than this, as I don't suppose there's much chance for family visits when the everyone's in hiding.

I'm not tucked into the red sheets, preferring to be free and able to wiggle my toes on top of the bed, though for now I'm trying to experience completely stillness; serenity.

Heavy breathing reminds me I'm not alone. I turn on my side, glancing at Hermione's figure in the other bed, starting to toss and turn restlessly again, mimicking the ocean outside. The crash of the waves colliding with the sand is oddly half-soothing and half-irritating, it makes me want to open the window and clamber out, dropping to the ground lithely and standing on the top of the craggy cliff, looking into the horizon where the sea fades into the sky and _feeling_ the place… listening to the ceaseless 'ssh' of water, surveying the tumbling white crests, sniffing the fishy scent, tasting the salt in the air, and allowing the wind to ravage the bare skin of my face and hands, piercing every pore. _Acknowledging the powers of nature…_

My thoughts regress to the topic of Hermione. Such a brave person, making it through the agony of torture, the pain and anguish, determined enough to spin a web of deception; making up that story about Godric Gryffindor's sword. The last I saw of the sword, it was still in Headmaster Snape's office, irretrievable. But with the goblin, she tricked the Death Eaters, even cruel, deranged Bellatrix Lestrange.

I see now why she is truly a Gryffindor. Apart from loyally supporting Harry through everything, most thought she was a bookworm, studious and smart. She is, certainly, though I never believed Ravenclaw suited her. Her values, hidden inside, are of a different order. Courage, passion, strength of will…

Definitely belongs in Gryffindor.

She's not perfect though. Though I do like her, think of her as a friend, there has always been that part of me at the back of my mind that reminds me of her faults… the voice in my head that is forever showing the negative side of myself, others and the world.

Hermione just can't believe in things that sound extraordinary, things that have no proof. I know why: She is scared. Scared that some things can't be proved, don't fit with one line of reason, don't make perfect sense.

It's one thing I pride myself on, above all others. Seeing possibility, wondering and imagining. Never assuming or presuming, never ruling something out just because.

Perhaps it isn't the most accepted way, but it's the way I've been brought up, the way I naturally think. The way my mind most contentedly works.

Maybe the world will be narrow-minded forever. It doesn't matter. Whether they believe or not, so much exists that is both powerful and incredible, and cannot be proved. And that's fine. I don't need proof.

The last thing my eyes make out in the darkness before I fall asleep is the flickering of shadows on the wall. Dancing, blank and silent and empty. Yet somehow alive.

My mother, one of those dim shapes circling the room, wavering but protective. I see her head and shoulders, hair I remember so vividly, golden and white and bronze intrinsically entwined to make the most dazzling shade – I see the longest strands blowing across the wall by the breeze from the window – I see a hand, waving, beckoning, the fingers thin and delicate, yet enlarged before my eyes – I see the last soft smile ever upon her face, as her eyes sparkle warmly until I turn away…

I turn away with tears in my eyes and all I see is vacant darkness.


	5. Chapter 5: The Garden

**A/N: And the next chapter, still keeping this fluffy, emotional thing going. But I'm planning for a bit of action later on, so stick with it if you think it's pretty boring. Thank you for the one review I've had, and I'm hoping for more, so any criticisms or comments are welcome!**

**Chapter 5**

With the first signs of sunlight infiltrating the room through the cotton curtains, I awake instantly, so much more sensitive to the light these days. I can't tell if my body is still aching with tiredness or not, so I just roll out of bed, my hair tousled and the pink imprint of the hand pressed to my cheek in sleep still visible – I notice this with a glance at a small, wooden framed mirror in the room.

I just wander down the hallway aimlessly for a moment before deciding to go outside. Enjoy the morning, perhaps, and try to seize the day with both hands before it's over.

If only I could find the stairs. I pace up and down the hallway, getting my bearings before I walk into the wall…Oops! That's Bill and Fleur's bedroom, with huddled figures still sleeping soundly; the room looks very pretty, tastefully decorated like the rest of the house. I pull that door up quietly and turn, stumbling down the first few steps of the staircase before I realise I've found what I was looking for. In relief, I tiptoe down with all the elegance of a frog and turn to face the door, finding it remarkable how lost I can get in a tiny cottage – so many distractions, so much to see.

I turn the handle and push it all the way open, serenely preparing myself for the scent of the grass and the flowers and the fresh sea breeze with closed eyes.

But they flicker open quickly as out tumbles a tall, dark skinned young man, wearing only pyjama bottoms and large red socks. Everything is a blur of colour as I am knocked to the floor, recalling the way his flesh seemed to burn me with the accidental contact.

And here I sit comfortably still on the floor, Dean's height exaggerated by the angle I have to tilt my head to survey his face, which in return is looking down at me, dishevelled and embarrassed. I can tell.

"Luna! I- I'm sorry, are you alright? I didn't mean to- really, I didn't know you were…" The concern in his voice is very sweet, and I start to make a cheery remark to finish his sentence.

"Standing right outside the living room door where you, Harry and Ron are sleeping? Trying to get out to the garden, thinking this door would be my escape? Already awake, because sometimes dreams are just too v-vivid to bear?" Emotion leaks out uncontrollably in my few words and I bury my face in my hands, hating myself for the sudden deterioration in my mood.

Through the gaps between my fingers, I see a hand outstretched; a gesture of kindness that I am not accustomed to, nor want to be indebted to at present. But still, I take it, and Dean pulls me up easily. He listened to my words with surprise and curiosity, awkwardly beginning to lead me out via the proper front door without answering. I wasn't expecting a reply to my outburst, and plaster a smile on my face as we both drop onto the small bench, drenched in the rays of daybreak.

"Umm… Luna." He says, trying to get my attention. I direct my wandering gaze from a small shrub to Dean's dark brown eyes.

"Bad dream?" He asks, referring to my earlier comment, but mistaking the meaning of it.

"No, no. I'm sorry, you don't want to know." But then I sigh and tell him straight out. Usually I hide my emotions so well people don't seem to think they exist. But when I explain all the reminiscing of my angel mother, tears well up in my eyes and I let them fall unashamedly. After all, what is there to be ashamed of?

Strange how in these past few days I've cried like I've been in the midst of a nervous breakdown. Mourning the dead, one recent – Dobby – and one so long ago and so devastating.

"Luna," Dean whispers gently. "I'm sorry. I didn't know, about your mother."

With the sound of my name and the clichéd, useless words, I cast a smile through my tears and say, "Oh well, Dean. I miss her so much. I think of her all the time. But things like this happen. All the time. It had to happen to me, but I know she's still there. She's with me…"

For a while we remain silent, only our arms touching as we sit side by side, but heads twisted so we are still looking at each other, the only way to share such ideas.

Then Dean blurts out, "I hope my mother's well. And my sisters; I miss them all. I thought I was in the worst situation in the world - being away from them for a while, without being in touch, without them even knowing where I am. Somehow this pain is keeping them safe, protecting us from the potential pain of losing them permanently. But you, Luna. And your father. It's so much harder for you."

And that is all we have to talk about, the serious topic exhausted. The garden's pretty though, so neither of us mind getting the healthy helping of fresh air. Without anything better to do, we both forget about the odd situation of hanging out with a mere acquaintance early in the morning, wearing pyjamas and looking downright windswept and bed-headed… and just relax.

Unaware of anything around us, we chat. Dean tells me his life story, I relay mine. We mention our friends, reminisce about Hogwarts, shudder at the thought of You-Know-Who. We avidly discuss Honeydukes sweets and Quidditch teams, and Dean tries to describe football – which is a sport, apparently, and much more popular than Quidditch (in the Muggle world, at least). I disagree, and add in my explanation of 'Throwthebowtruckle' which is bound to be the next big thing, says a Quibbler reporter in Denmark.

All this silly things that don't matter, we talk about them. We could talk for hours on end, whether or not we have anything in common or actually like each other's company.

It doesn't matter when we have all the time in the world.

Here in this peaceful garden.


	6. Chapter 6: Wondering

**Chapter 6**

_We are  
Crooked souls trying to stay up straight  
Dry eyes in the pouring rain while  
The shadow proves the sunshine  
The shadow proves the sunshine_

_Two scared little runaways__  
Hold fast till the break of daylight when  
The shadow proves the sunshine  
The shadow proves the sunshine_

The days trail by, one after another, April blooming in front of my eyes.

Harry, Ron and Hermione are drowning in their plans; most likely highly dangerous and involving the goblin whose name _still _escapes me. I almost wish I could help – Bill and Fleur seem to think the three of them will stay here and hide out until the war's over, but I know there'll come a time when Harry's ready to leave – and I don't think I'm invited along. Unless they're off to Hogwarts, in which case they can't stop me – and Dean – from coming.

As everyday everyone is consumed by their own worries and forming their own plans – how will I find Daddy? Do I dare to go home? – I've started sketching again. I encountered a pad of paper and found myself a pencil: no magical quills, just a Muggle instrument to allow myself to create anything, _anything _on a page. I've been trying to depict a Blibbering Humdinger, but it's not very easy trying to be so accurate: sometimes abstract feelings seem so _tangible_… so the most accurate piece of artwork I ever created was on my bedroom ceiling. My friends. I wonder if it's still there, remembering the fact that my house might have been completely destroyed by the time the Death Eaters left and the Snorkack horn exploded.

Today I'm standing outside, where I feel most comfortable, close to the edge of the cliff. Harry used to come here to escape from us all and the irritating questions and puzzled faces… but he's given it up recently. This means I am safe and alone here now – I didn't want to bother Harry when his mind was inundated with too many thoughts and grief, sorrow, exhaustion. Everyone has times like that – his life is a lot more wearisome and frustrating than others could imagine, myself included.

But I do know my imagination's quite up to par… people do have brilliant minds, but never use them to the full extent, don't you think? It's rather like human beings to be lazy. They could achieve so much if they only tried.

Anyway, here I am, enjoying my little thought-provoking experience in the blustery breeze this pleasant afternoon. There are so many words to describe the magnificence of the day; I wish I could use them all. People forget the importance of glorious words when they have dreadful occurrences. It's just too bad. Life should be described to the finest it can be, even if it isn't always like that. So many wonderful little things, that would be more than the bad, if only people noticed them. _The shadow proves the sunshine._

I'm losing track of everything again. Pondering the world is so remarkable. I start to hum a random tune under my breath, my eyes flickering shut.

Suddenly, I feel a light tap on my shoulder; I turn calmly, hoping it is a Crumple-Horned Snorkack. But it is not. Fleur Weasley has glided over, Dean dawdling a few metres behind. Oh well – Dean's almost as good company as a Snorkack.

"Leetle Luna, I was wondering-"

"Oh yes, Fleur, I was just thinking about how people should wonder more often, it-" I say clearly, happy she has begun to marvel things.

"No, Luna, I was asking eef maybe you could collect some wood for ze fire. You do enjoy being outside so…"

"Of course, Fleur. I'd love to do that." I am pleased to have an opportunity to help. At first I could tell she was a little cautious of me, but people usually are. I don't even know why. I'm just myself; what more can I be?

"Luna, do you…Can I come with you?" It's Dean.

I tell him he can, of course. I rather like his company. He's very…unlike anyone I've met**.** I suppose being the only ones around in this isolated cottage, we are forced to resort to each other when we want to say anything, and then, we'll listen to each other, just because what else can we do? I don't mind though…for a boy like him, he's been oddly accepting, less wary of me than most are when they first become acquainted. It's nice, in that sense - I haven't heard a 'Loony' from him - but then again that could be just because there's no one to laugh with about me.

We stroll down the isolated cliff path in near silence. Maybe Dean finds silence awkward, because before long he breaks the harmony of the waves crashing against the shore and the rush of wind with, "Luna?"

"Mmm," I reply, still lost in the humming of that song.

**"**Well, I…uh just wanted to tell you I've liked getting to know you. I mean, I never really paid any attention to you, what with…" I know he's thinking of how in Hogwarts, we were two completely different types of people, content with a vague representation of how we were from other people's points of view. Never seeing a need to understand or clearly see each other.

"What with going out with Ginny, I mean, you two were good friends, right?" He continued.

I nod.

"But, being together here…sure, it hasn't been that long, but you're actually…very nice."

I nod again, wanting to make sure he's finished. I think maybe he's hinting at something, but I don't know what. A minute ago, he was being so blunt and now it's like he's speaking a different language.

He looks at me confusedly, as if I should be saying something to him, so I look at him in the eyes and simply say, "You're actually very nice too."

After that, he seems unable to carry on with whatever he was saying, so we start collecting bits of driftwood in peace.

**A/N: The next chapter will be pretty much a continuation of this... scene... and one of the songs that's been inspiring me, if you hadn't already realised, is "The Shadow Proves the Sunshine" by Switchfoot.**


	7. Chapter 7: The Deluge

**A/N: Disclaimer's in the first chapter, but applies as always. I'm sorry it's taken such a long time to upload, but I hope you appreciate it anyway. So, what did everyone think of the Deathly Hallows movie? I really loved it, thought it was definitely one of the best. Though no DEAN ... which means this story could never have happened in the movie. Not that it's exactly canon, either. :) **

_**Oh, been listening some Switchfoot, a bit of Relient K and loads of Goo Goo Dolls when writing this story. Try listening to the lyrics of Something For The Rest Of Us (Goo Goo Dolls), I somehow relate the words a lot to this fanfic.**_

**Chapter 7 **

The beach is beautiful, tranquil and lonely. It distracts all my thoughts from Dean and his complex obliqueness, so I just wander barefoot on the sand and occasionally bend down to grab a piece of dry driftwood. I find myself a simple game of deciding what the interesting, twisted shapes of driftwood are… something people often do to clouds, but with the wave-battered wood the shapes and forms are much more distinct. It reminds me a little of Divination – so subjective, with everyone's eyes picking out different features of the tea leaf dregs decorating the side of the teacups. No right answer, no limits of imagination.

So far, I have collected a snake – most pieces could be attributed as snakes but one especially has the perfect knot-eye and its tail even waves to the side in mid-slither. A fish, a candle, a fox, a coat-hanger and hippogriff have been among the findings.

I show Dean the latest discovery, exclaiming, "Isn't this a perfect Nargle?"

He merely offers a grin, but the grin delights me more than any answer could do. Something about the curl of his lips upwards and brightening of his eyes, not to mention the gleam of teeth… well, the smile seems a solid interpretation of happiness.

I give the Nargle-driftwood to Dean to hold and continue piling up my stock of wood by holding up the end of my shirt as a makeshift basket.

We trek down the beach, following the cliff line and have reached a small cove, an inconspicuous bend in the bay. Dean complains about being hungry, but his tone is good-natured all the same.

All of a sudden, a deluge of rain is thrown upon our unsuspecting heads. The heavens have sprung a surprise attack on the land, though Dean and I are on the fringe of land and whirling water, besides. Dean fights his way to the shelter of a little crevice in the cliff-side, ducking inside but already soaked to the skin. I am not in the mood to crouch in there under siege, so I admit defeat and choose to stay in the downpour. It's rather refreshing.

Dean looks on as I dance about, letting myself go. I honestly cannot help myself – I feel so wondrously liberated in this rain on this beach.

Dean, overcoming the awkwardness of our earlier conversation, shouts gleefully, "You look radiant out there, Luna!"

He sounds so unlike himself that I almost believe him.

But the day does look splendid; late afternoon, the sky beginning to gain the soft purpley tinge of evening. My fair hair is tangled and wild, damp and flying behind me in the wind and water. The waves are dancing too, leaping with a crazy joy. I look over at the young man, who looks back, beaming. It is as though I am gazing at him, daring him to move. Because in that same moment, he jumps out too and grabs my small pale hands in his own larger pair. We dance together, bounding and skipping with more exuberance than elegance over the rocks and water.

It is the most fun we've had in ages. My mother once told me the way to go about life was to _"Do what you love best, and don't pay attention to what others think of you. Because you know you'll always get through life by enjoying yourself."_ She also said, _"Sometimes reason fails to reward. But acting on an instinct will fill your heart with satisfaction." _It is times like these that I think she's right.

Somehow, the waves rush up over our feet and suddenly submerge half our bodies. Well, I, at least, am up to my chest as the tide rushes in, but Dean, being considerably taller, is only standing in up to his waist. Still, the entire beach is flooding up – or have we unknowingly spun and danced further from the shore? Either way, the current is crashing into us, a force to be reckoned with. And I don't want to reckon – I will just cling onto Dean and hope for the best. Or perhaps, I wonder, maybe it would be better to just let myself drift away, exploring each wave and turn of the sea…

And I don't remember what I was thinking or why I was thinking it, but I find myself running for the rock face, hand in hand with Dean. He's tugging me now, moving at a pace I can't keep up with. We've made it back onto dry land - though the sand is still literally damp – and though the rain seems to be subsiding we are still drenched. And I feel better. I feel content. The edge of craziness has withdrawn now.

"Phew," Dean sighs, happily exhausted, then asking, "Are you alright?"

I nod, reply, "Oh, yes, are you?"

Without an answer he flops, grinning, onto a wet rock, and then accidentally slips off. I smile and look up at the never-ending sky, with the disappearing clouds and am surprised to see the sun has sunk so low already, hovering a little above the gleaming water.

A few minutes later, Dean stands up and clasps my hands. "We'd better get the driftwood up to the cottage soon. Don't you think they'll be wondering where we are?"

I think about that for a minute, then realise, "Well, I suppose they (meaning Bill and Fleur) are quite preoccupied, what with all the things that have happened recently.

"Fleur will be busy preparing meals and making things pleasant for everyone, and I'm sure Bill will still be a bit worried about Harry and Ronald and Hermione. Don't you think? He'll be wondering what they're planning and when they're going to do whatever they mean to. It'll be something dangerous, for sure…"

Dean nods. We forget about leaving and Dean starts me thinking about Harry's plan by asking, "What has the goblin got to do with anything? I mean, he was at the Malfoys', but what do Harry and them want with him? How on earth has he been involved in their plans?"

Goblins. Where would a goblin be useful? The idea comes to me almost instantly – the only place I have ever seen goblins before is at the bank, Gringotts. I don't actually have a vault or anything there, our family never have. Daddy says that he doesn't like goblins (Gobblius Cuninglious) and they don't like him either. But occasionally Daddy even felt sorry for them – he prefers goblins to the Ministry, and I suppose I see why. I shiver, and that brings me out of my stream of thoughts and distracts me instantaneously.

I look at Dean, who is shivering quite a lot too. The cold is obviously getting to us, and we are being battered by icy wind. I only just become conscious of the fact we are still drenched and freezing, and huddling together on the damp sand.

"I suppose we'd better move now," I say. Dean and I gather up our miserable piles of damp driftwood – the pieces that didn't wash away in the storm - and trudge slowly back up the steep path, hugging the rock face.


	8. Chapter 8: A Promise

**A/N: So it's been a while again, I know I'm not very regular, but I did start some Rose/Scorpius fluff shots kinda stuff a while ago and all my inspiration went to them. But I found myself missing Luna and Dean, so I thought I'd finally update. Hope you like the chapter and especially the ending of this one? Maybe? Let me know by reviewing!**

**And thank you for every single comment, alert or favourite I get, it means a lot to me... and gives me an excuse to keep writing rather than just letting myself do it for my own pleasure or to procrastinate ;)**

**Chapter 8**

The climb back up the cliff side seems to have lasted an era, of steady footsteps and companionable calmness. I cradle my driftwood and alternate my gaze between the beach below and the sunlight glimmering from up above, fighting to regain its place among the clouds. Dean keeps in pace at my side, though the path is narrow and unworn and it is probably safer traversing in single file – but I'm strangely glad about his presence beside me.

We don't say much to each other – I had noticed Dean wasn't exactly an avid conversationalist back at Hogwarts, but when it was the here and now, just him and me, he was even more silent than I'd ever expected. I did want to speak, and perhaps he did too, I wasn't sure; but there was just something about him that made the flowing paragraphs streaming out of my brain sharp and jerky, some words tumbling out of my mouth and then other thoughts refusing adamantly to leave my throat. Quite unusual, really.

However, before the walk can begin to feel like dragging on, we've reached the fresh, rain-sprinkled green grass again. By now, my clothes feel a little drier, and not that it matters, but my hair is still damp down my back, tangled and limp and ever so wavy. I run a finger or two through it just to check.

Our feet lead us through the enclosed tranquillity of the circle of trees, presently dew-embellished, just before the small side garden gate. I glance over my shoulder very briefly, but it seems Dean is staring at my back. Bizarrely self-conscious, I make a point of dashing out of the way in a little – yet very obvious - leap sideways, so that we are separated by the nearest tree, each of us shielded from the other in the time it takes us to step a pace or two forwards.

"I think we need a plan." I break into speech abruptly, though in the softest, dreamiest, vaguest way possible, so that if someone else heard or Dean absolutely didn't agree, there was an off chance they wouldn't hear the words through the utterly different tone. Of course, I am being serious, and ideas are fighting for attention in my mind, I just have to explore them further. Luckily the topic has been brought up before we reach the house filled with ears, if not attentive ones.

Dean, the boy I have decided never to expect a reaction or reply from - yes, that Dean looks my way, grabs my elbow gently, just a little more than a passing touch, and I follow his direction as he angles my body so I'm facing him. His eyes are wide and fully open, while his brow is furrowed in thought. He speaks with a calm urgency and I somehow feel this is the first time I've seen the inner Dean.

"Yes," He breathes, "Exactly. There's no use in sitting around, whiling away the days." He shakes his head with suppressed feeling and I interrupt again, in the same hushed voice.

"Everyone's distracted in there, and Harry's got to be planning to go to Gringotts or somewhere – because of the goblin, you see… while they're sorting out their plan I doubt we'll end up being included in it…" My voice is light and cheery, but I do hate waiting and hiding, I do. So I continue, "We've been caught once already, both of us, but there must be something we can do, some plan of our own to focus on…"

Dean's bursting with excitement as he responds, "I know, I'm sure we can do something amazing to help, bring down You-Know-Who, sabotage the Snatchers, rescue muggle-borns…"

I nod, my eyebrows rising high as I realise to how much of an extent Dean secretly desires to be a hero. Or a ninja or something. I give a light chuckle, with no intention of offending his ideas. He immediately seems to take it that way, and as he automatically reacts by jerking back a step, I cancel out that distance by bounding closer a step and gazing up at him. "Mmhmm, anything we can do. Every small action we take will amount to something, and we don't know how long this war will be waged – we can do our part."

After a pause, I finish my speech, pouring out each and every thought that occurs to me in the simplest, most straightforward way possible, as if I am telling myself rather than the being opposite me.

"Rather than trying to get to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named himself," – firstly, calling him by that name has become second nature to me, though I don't have a problem with his chosen name… in my opinion, Voldemort doesn't sound intimidating at all, just on the verge of silliness…wouldn't you think he'd a least pick something easier to pronounce and spell so everyone can get the gist of what his aims are… for example, the Rotfang conspiracy is named precisely for that reason. – Secondly, I do not want to dwell on the ordeal of Malfoy Manor any more than necessary and a conclusion springs to mind that Dean and I don't want to end up visiting that place again. This I tell him.

"Why shouldn't we do the unpredictable? Couldn't we do the little tasks that people forget about? We could help the injured, raise awareness about the missing, try to calm some of the fear that just won't do anyone any good."

Dean shrugs, trying to look enthusiastic. But he agrees and knows we'll do whatever.

"And I know it may be dangerous, but sooner or later, I just feel we have to- "

He meets my hopeful eyes with a knowing smile. We finish in unison, both of our secret dreams announced to the other.

"Find our families."

"It's a deal," He says, his smile broadening into a grin, alight with confidence and the happy prospects of making sure his family is safe.

"I have to see Daddy, and you must need to check on your mother and sisters…."

"Even if it's for one last time, to say goodbye."

I nod, trying to swallow what seem to be a surge in doubt and nerves. I inhale and smile gently, but all of a sudden Dean's firewood from under his arm has clattered to the grass and his face is filling up my line of vision. His arm clasps round my shoulder, and with no objections I fold into him, my driftwood too having floated from my grasp. The warmth of his vast body surrounds me and melts the worry, seems to bind the promise we have made. Even with the prospect of coming danger and plotting of action, for once, I feel genuinely safe and at ease.

After a moment, this hug-thing brims with the awkwardness Dean and I just seem to carry in bucket loads and there is nothing to do but break apart, I decide. However, just as I'm working out the best way to wriggle out from his embrace, he loosens his arm, his muscles flexed and relaxing… and he tilts his head to eradicate the space between us by pressing his lips to mine.

**Ooh, what are you thinking right now? Penny for your thoughts in a little itsy-bitsy review? Don't you want another chapter? **


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